


Two Very Different Men

by Wingittofreedom



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Beautiful illustrations, Death Threats, Enemies, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Abuse, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-09-24 10:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20356738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wingittofreedom/pseuds/Wingittofreedom
Summary: It’s been six months and Spock hasn’t tried to kill him. Jim takes matters into his own hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notants/gifts).

> Thanks to Bee for the amazing art that inspired this! And thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for beta'ing.

“It’s been six months. Tell me why you haven’t tried to kill me,” Jim snarled, pressing the knife to his First Officer’s throat.

Of course, a phaser would have worked equally well to ensure the Vulcan’s compliance, but steel is more eloquent, and it was important that Jim was understood.

Six months ago, Jim had been assigned a new first officer. Spock. A Vulcan whose record was marked with mysterious deaths, speaking clearly of an ambition and ruthlessness that Jim could admire as well as fear.

Assassination attempts by first officers were common in the Empire after all. And especially on the _ISS Enterprise_, where privileges and salaries for captains were many and high, so Jim had been on his guard from the first. Spies alert and vigilance doubled—sleeping with one eye open, watching his back down every corridor, waiting for the inevitable attack.

Assassination was how Jim had gotten the job after all.

But this strange new First Officer _hadn’t_ tried to kill him.

Stranger still, there had been no posturing, no threats, no shows of power or intimidation of the sort which were practically routine in the Empire’s fleet.

The Vulcan hadn’t done any of that. Just gone about his business as Science and First Officer, completing assignments, filling out paperwork on time and punishing those who failed to do so with the agonizer.

And watching Jim.

The watching had started with a prickle on the back of Jim’s neck during a bridge shift in Spock’s second week, and he’d turned to see Spock’s black eyes fixed on him.

_Ugly eyes,_ Jim had decided, giving his First Officer a sharp remand to get back to work.

It had only gotten worse after that though.

Throughout the day, day after day, Jim would feel Spock’s awful eyes on him—and he’d tense, waiting for the challenge, the blow, the knife in the back, whatever Spock was going to do.

But nothing ever happened, and Jim’s wariness had quickly mounted to paranoia. He had spies tailing Spock around the clock, had even tried to send him one of the ship’s women—one who would report back to Jim of course—but nothing. Just the silent watching, which made Jim more and more paranoid—more sure that Spock was just biding his time, more unsure as to what.

It’d been getting worse by the day—felt like he was going insane—had been lashing out more, finding excuses to send crewmembers to the agony booth, sent Spock there more than once (expressionless, even at the highest setting, and still _watching_ him the whole time), sleep plagued by more nightmares than usual, leaving him wild and full of demented rage when he woke, feeding the vicious cycle—and always Spock’s eyes, waiting around every corner and every time Jim closed his eyes, driving him mad and making even success on missions taste like dust.

None of which was good policy if he wanted the balance of the terror he inspired to outweigh the anger that could spark a coup amongst his officers.

Jim would probably have to kill him, damned good First Officer that he was.

So he’d laid a trap—commanded Spock to report to the Captain’s quarters, set men on Spock’s guards, jabbed him with a hypo full of a fast-acting paralytic which Bones had told him would quarter a Vulcan’s strength and slow movement—and then pulled his knife, pushing Spock’s back onto his thigh against a couch, holding him down, fighting down the rush of power that came with having Spock, hated Vulcan adversary, in this position.

“Tell me,” Jim growled when Spock failed to answer—just kept _watching_ him with those infernal dark eyes. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

Jim’s killed many, many people this way before, and it would almost be worth it just to get Spock to stop _looking_ at him like that.

Jim would probably even enjoy it. He bet bleeding out would rip the blankness from Spock’s face.

But Spock didn’t say anything.

Instead, with one hand, he slowly reached up, gripping the back of Jim’s knife hand, and pressed the blade tighter against his own throat.

_What—?_

Confused, Jim was unprepared for what Spock did next despite how slowly it happened, as though he’d been frozen by a malicious spell. 

Without breaking eye-contact, Spock reached up his other hand—so slowly, why couldn’t Jim move?—finding the back of Jim’s head and pulling him firmly towards his own face.

And _kissed_ him.

Stunned, Jim felt the soft movement of Spock’s mouth against his, the firm hand on the back of his neck, the slow pause between heartbeats.

And then it was over, and he was being released, shock reverberating through him.

“What was that for?” he gasped angrily, wiping his mouth. _Was Spock **insane**?_

Fury inflamed him when Spock still didn’t answer, and Jim shook him, fisted a hand in his hair and yanked his head roughly backwards—exposing his throat.

“Answer me!” Jim commanded, almost nicking Spock’s jaw as he pressed the flat knife down cruelly, a warning.

Expression unchanging, Spock _finally_ opened his mouth.

“Had you ever been kissed before now?” he asked, those black eyes horribly perceptive.

“Of course I have,” Jim snapped automatically.

But this was a lie.

Because just now, with Spock, had been Jim’s first and only kiss.

Sex, yes—the violence that happened in bed Jim knew all about. Had known about since before he should’ve, when he was too young to even have words for what was happening. Painful lessons never revisited and shrouded in darkness that Jim would never forget. Lessons that had made Jim who he was—powerful, ruthless and prepared to do anything to keep it and stay alive, no matter the cost.

But despite everything that’d been done to him, he’d never kissed anyone. All the people Jim had been to bed with filled his nightmares with their faces—a requiem of the people he’s taken revenge on.

And despite his carefully cultivated reputation, Jim never took anyone to his own bed. He knew from experience how easily death could be delivered when someone was distracted by the weakness of pleasure.

Jim glared down at Spock, who was still looking into him—like he somehow _knew_ all this, like he somehow knew that Jim was lying—except he _couldn't_ know, so it had to all be in Jim's head. Feeling his fury mount to unbearable levels, Jim considered killing him right then. _Didn’t Spock know who Jim was? What he did to people who piss him off?_

“Is that what this is about?” Jim spat. “You want to fuck me? ‘Cause that’s never going to happen.”

“I certainly wish to engage in sexual intercourse with you,” Spock said with disarming bluntness. “But that is not why I came here or willingly allowed you to apprehend me.”

“You don’t allow me to do anything,” Jim snarled, pressing the knife tighter against Spock’s neck. “Start explaining what all this is about, and if your answer isn’t good enough I’ll kill you here. I was planning to make it fast, but you’re starting to make me want it to last longer,” Jim said, a cruel smile twisting his mouth, a look that has terrified Admirals and quelled his subordinates. “I’d enjoy that.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Spock said confidently, never looking away from him with those infuriating, preternatural eyes. “You would not enjoy it. And you will not kill me. Or if you do, you will surely regret it.”

_Would I?_

“You don’t know me. You _don’t_ know what I’d do,” Jim said, roughly jerking Spock’s head back even further and tilting his blade against Spock’s throat, dragging it so that a thin line of green appeared—anything to wipe that fucking calm off Spock’s face. “I could kill you easily. And I’d probably sleep better.”

“Do you truly believe that?” Spock asked, face unchanging as a drop of green blood slid down his neck.

_Brave, but fucking stupid._

Snarling, Jim decided he really was going to kill him, just to shut him up, but Spock kept going. “You are incorrect in your belief that I do not know you. I have observed you for 6.34 months and you cannot lie to me. I have seen that you do not hesitate to inflict pain where it is warranted, even as I have seen that you do not relish the task. My death would hurt you more than it would me.”

Jim sneered. “Even if that’s true—which it isn’t, at all—why do you care? The only thing you should care about is how you want to die. ”

Even as he asked it, Jim knew it was a foolish, weak question. One that betrayed him as it betrayed that he was being influenced—manipulated, he reminded himself—by what Spock was telling him, and he hardened his heart.

“Everything about you is of importance to me. You are my _t’hy’la_,” Spock breathed, uttering a word Jim had never heard. “My soulmate, as humans would say. I have possessed this knowledge this since the first day we met. If you recall, you touched me as I re-assembled on the transporter pad, and I knew at once.”

Jim remembered the moment. His new First Officer’s beam up position had been precarious—he’d been beamed out of the middle of a firefight—and Jim had reached out automatically to steady him, a reflex he’d never been able to rid himself of despite his best efforts. It was a weakness, he knew.

“It was a kindness,” Spock said, and Jim’s eyes snapped to his. Was Spock reading his mind? “However small. And one that has saved your life. I was sent here to kill you. And I would have done so, for I have never failed before,” Spock stated plainly, and although it could be a boast, something about the way he said it had Jim believing it was true. “However I felt your mind touch mine—and our _katra_, our souls, are kindred. Ever since I have been observing you in order to determine your character and motivations so that I might decide how to approach you.”

Spock was clearly, definitely insane, Jim decided, staggered by this onslaught of carefully stated, logical, yet _insane_ information. “And you thought_ this_ would be the best way?” he asked, strangely breathless.

“I have determined that who you are and who you pretend to be—” Spock said quietly, eyes going soft as he slowly reached up a hand, tracing one of the three harsh scar lines that ran just to the side of Jim’s right eye; the ones his stepfather had put there, and Pike had added to, whose faces he sees in his nightmares, “—are two very different men.”

Flinching away from the touch (although not before he’d let Spock’s fingers linger too long) Jim let go of Spock, watching him slump to the floor, still under the influence of the debilitating drug.

“How do I know that you’re not lying to make me drop my guard?”

Spock looked at him with his eloquent (beautiful) eyes. “There is no longer need for such pretenses James. You have known for a long time that I am not your enemy. Just as you have known that I love you. It is why you have been so uneasy in my presence for the last six months, and why you are still troubled when I look at you,” Spock said. “Look at me now and tell me this is not true and I will never speak to you of this again.”

Jim _knew_ Spock was insane now. Everyone knew that love didn’t exist in the Empire, and Jim knew that it didn’t exist at all. It never had.

Heart beating hard, Jim struggled to keep looking at Spock, to not prove Spock right by dropping his gaze.

It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

Maybe the hardest.

Looking into Spock’s eyes and allowing himself to see the love he’d known was there all along without having been able to believe it.

Crying out, Jim dropped the knife as though it burned him, and it fell to the ground with a clatter.

Struggling, Spock tried to push himself off the floor on unresponsive arms, his face breaking with concern as he looked at Jim. “James, do not—“

“Jim. Call me Jim.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in endnotes (more specific versions of tags)  
Thank you to [summerofspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock) for bravely beta'ing my first time writing an E, and for encouraging me to do it in the first place ;)

_“Now we see but a dim reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”_ —1 Corinthians 13:12

* * *

"Are you awake Jim?”

Mouth softening imperceptibly at the use of his name, Jim brought the comm to his ear.

“Yep.”

“May I come to your quarters?”

Jim’s heart skipped a beat, stupidly excited, but he made himself think through the question before responding. 

Looking at a chronometer, Jim watched it change to 2301 hours. Late. That had to mean—well. It_meant_, and Jim had half a mind to tell Spock to go fuck himself.

But despite the implications, Jim still wanted to see Spock just a little more than he wanted to snub him. 

“Ok.”

A brief pause. “Very well. I will be there shortly,” Spock said, and then the comm line clicked off, because Spock never lingered after what needed to be said had been said.

Even after the Scene that had occurred between them a month and a half ago, the Vulcan had merely waited the ten further minutes for the drug to wear off before leaving for his own quarters—but only after securing Jim’s permission to return the next day for a game of chess, of all things. Jim had almost killed him, and he wanted to play _chess_.

_ Crazy bastard_. 

Honestly Jim didn’t know how to deal with him. 

And that, more than anything else, drove Jim_ insane._

One minute they’d be playing chess, Spock drinking tea and smiling faintly, watching Jim (as always) as Jim gestured animatedly about something,_enjoying_himself, having allowed the terrifying, sadistic persona that he wore outside his quarters at all times to slip for a moment and—and the next it would be too much and he’d be shouting, knocking Spock’s tea out of his hands and throwing the chess board at the wall, ordering Spock out of his room in a fit of rage that came from nowhere.

It'd happened again—for the 6th time, or was it the 7th?—just two days ago. Bad mood over a shitty mission; two ambushes on planet and a fight aboard the_Enterprise _in his absence, and fuck if it didn’t felt good when that chess board hit the wall by Spock’s head, the flash of_something_in Spock’s eyes when Jim’d ordered him to go. In the moment Jim had half-hoped that Spock would stay. If only so that Jim could kill him and work off some excess energy.

But Spock had gone. Like always—quietly picked up his cracked teacup and put it in the recycler, exiting silently. 

And when he’d gone Jim was still angry—furious, ranting to himself about loathsome Vulcans and vile First Officers who pushed too far and fucking idiot Vulcan First Officers who said stupid shit about love and then looked at you like_that_.

But eventually the anger had dissipated, vanishing as unexpectedly as it had come. And like he always did after these fits, Jim realized that he was alone. 

And then he’d feel ashamed, and then angry at himself for_being_ashamed. Spock didn’t own him. He was Jim’s First Officer, and if he was idiot enough to be in love with Jim then so what? Jim didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, hadn’t made any promises and he didn’t owe Spock a fucking thing.

_ Except your life_, a small voice whispered in the back of Jim’s mind.

_ Shut up_, Jim thought, quelling the voice._And besides, if it comes to that Spock owes me his life too, since by all rights I should’ve killed him when I had the chance_. Jim could still kill him, every time he came to Jim’s quarters alone and without a weapon, the fool. 

And Jim was still not entirely sure that he wouldn’t.

Now, when Spock watched him, Jim was pretty sure he knew what that look meant—and he wasn’t happy about it, even if now he was 90% positive it wasn’t about Spock wanting to kill him. 

Hell, Jim_knew_what the look meant since Spock hadn’t been shy about expressing his desires during the Encounter. He wanted to have sex with Jim. And_bond_with him. Had said so in that point blank way of his.

It was weird though. Despite his consuming looks and declaration, Spock hasn’t kissed him, or touched him at all really, since that day...which just meant that the implication was louder than ever, sitting tense between them whenever they were alone, making Jim perpetually antsy.

Worse still, it might not be all Spock. Lately Jim’d been noticing annoying things like the way his First Officer’s uniform clung to his waist, the cant of his wrist over the science station, the tilt of his hips, and his expressive eyes that Jim had used to think were so ugly—blinking beautifully back at him from across a chess table.

Getting up from his desk where he’d been finishing off reports, Jim started pacing, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

He didn’t usually let himself get like this, hated Spock for putting him in this position. Because unlike mission nerves, this situation had him questioning himself—and what he wanted—and he_hated_that, hated that more than anything. 

The meaning of 2300 was disturbingly clear though. 

It was several hours later than Spock usually came to him and since Spock was never casual about time (or anything else), this must have been deliberate—a message that could only mean one thing.

_ Spock wants to have sex with you, _he thought as he paced one side of his room like a caged animal._He _says_ he’s in love with you_.

_ Ha! He definitely_believes _he is, I’m sure of that,_Jim thought to himself, not fully able to dismiss what he’d seen in Spock’s eyes, and what he still saw there, when he could bring himself to look. 

But why would you want to do_that_to someone you were supposedly in love with?_That_was the sort of thing you did with a whore, a _prostitute_—with someone who meant nothing, who was disposable. Like Jim had been to P— 

No. This was an opportunity, Jim reminded himself. He’d exploit Spock’s foolishly given loyalty and, if the price was a few chess games and some sexual tension, Jim knew that Spock’s competence as a first officer was more than worth it.

And Spock’s company wasn’t so bad really.

So maybe sex with him wouldn’t be so bad either. 

Jim'd never had the opportunity to have sex without being afraid of having his throat cut, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to try it—try it with Spock in particular. Though Jim was a very good liar, trying to lie to himself about this was pointless because he knew exactly how his body responded when he saw said First Officer bent over the scanner, pants tight over the curve of his ass. 

He knew how his face burned and how he couldn’t shake thoughts of Spock in that exact same pose, only with all of those stupid clothes removed._Couldn't_lie when he knew how those same thoughts plagued him throughout his shift, pursued him into his quarters where he ended up furious with himself for being distracted by something so meaningless and trivial.

It wasn't the idea of Spock being a man that put Jim off specifically. Jim didn't spend much time thinking about his sexual preferences, but he knew he wasn't opposed to it, in theory. Gay sex was common in the Empire after all.

But just like everything else in the Empire, sex was never free from power dynamics of conquest, and between men it was..._complicated_. It was always done with the stipulation that whichever person got fucked was inherently emasculated. That they were the weaker, more feminine, and lower in status of the two while the person doing the fucking was the dominant and masculine one. Even knowing he wouldn't allow himself to be the former of the two, it was still so—

Chiming, the door buzzer interrupted Jim’s pacing and his thoughts.

He wasn’t ready, hadn’t come to a decision—but if he was going to order Spock away he’d rather do it in person, so after looking through his security scanner (twice), and getting confirmation from his door guards that Spock was weaponless, Jim allowed the door to be opened, taking a ready stance outside the line of fire just in case.

But as always, it was just Spock who strode in, alone and unarmed, eyes fixing on Jim immediately. Under his gaze, Jim dropped into a more casual pose—but he didn't smile as he sometimes did when Spock came by for one of these visits. This occasion did not call for a smile and Jim didn't waste them.

Straightening, Spock gestured to the cabinet where Jim kept his chessboard and books hidden away—the only personal items in his otherwise spartan room. 

“Do you wish to play chess?” Spock asked, and Jim narrowed his eyes.

“Subterfuge is unlike you.” His First Officer was like clockwork and 2300 hours was a clearer statement of intention than any words could be. 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I wished to put you at ease,” he said, clearly taking Jim’s meaning.

“Well, you failed,” Jim said, crossing his arms and sitting down on the edge of his bed.

A moment later, Spock took a seat next to him, leaving just enough space between them that Jim didn’t instantly order him off. 

There was a pause while Jim glared at the wall before Spock spoke. When he did, it was, as always, disconcertingly blunt. 

_ Honest_, flashed through Jim’s mind as he turned to meet Spock’s gaze. 

“You are aware that I wish to bond with you, and that I desire to consummate our relationship.” Spock, damn him, didn’t even blush as he said this, but from the way Jim felt his face heat, he wasn’t so lucky.

He went back to glaring at the wall, but a few seconds later, Spock put a hand on Jim’s thigh, and he felt his blush deepen, and then he was ashamed—of how good the contact felt and how he didn’t move away. Couldn’t move away from it—even though he had half a mind to throw Spock out of the room just for trying it.

“Jim, I recognize that Vulcan and Human mating practices are different and you do not have the advantage of telepathy as I do. And I am also aware that this may be difficult for you for oth—”

This was unbearable, and Jim’s mind was made in all but a moment. The only solution was to fuck Spock. He’d get it out of both their systems, and then they could go back to the way things were whether Spock liked it or not. There was no way in hell Jim’s_bonding_with him.

“Fine, let’s do it. No more pussyfooting around,” Jim said, getting up and jerking his outer shirt off. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it all the way. It wasn't like Spock would stab him. That at least, was clear.

Spock looked surprised and then wary, but he followed Jim’s lead, taking off his shirt, boots and then, when Jim didn’t stop stripping either, his pants and underwear. 

Without more than a utilitarian glance at Spock’s body, Jim pushed him roughly onto the bed, climbing on top of him.

Jim reached for Spock’s hands, and Spock complied eagerly, squeezing back and letting Jim pull them over Spock’s head and press them against the headboard. 

Ignoring the way Spock was arching into him, Jim snapped Spock’s wrists into the handcuffs he kept looped around the bar—the ones he used on his own wrists so he wouldn’t hurt himself in his sleep the way he almost always did when he got nightmares. This wasn’t about affection after all. It was an exchange. One that would remind Spock who was in control.

Still ignoring Spock, whose eyes flashed with surprise and betrayal, Jim reached into the drawer by his bed and grabbed a bottle of lube, squeezing some onto his hand and coating his fingers.

_ If this is what Spock wants from Jim then fine. If he wants to be my whore then fine. Just so long as he doesn’t expect the same from me_, he thought as he pulled Spock’s legs apart and began to prepare him, knowing how to do this since he’s done it on himself, in the brief moments he’d have before Pike w—

And despite the fact that Spock’s eyes shut in a grimace at the intrusion, Spock didn’t protest, relaxing around the movements of Jim’s fingers with what must've been Vulcan control since he was ready more quickly than a human would've been.

“Turn over,” Jim commanded when he was done, not wanting to have to deal with Spock looking at him with those fucking eyes the whole time—either with betrayal or pain or that insane love of his. Jim wasn't sure which would be worse.

Mouth tightening, Spock remained stubbornly where he was.

Jim glared. “I said, turn over,” he commanded again, menacing, in the voice he used to give orders.

Still not moving, Spock looked back at him, defiance flashing in his brown eyes despite his vulnerable position, and Jim felt anger strike like flint in his stomach.

“Fine,” Jim said, pushing off Spock and reaching over the side of the bed to pull Spock’s agonizer from the belt where he’d discarded it on the floor. Less than a second later he was back on top of Spock, kneeing him in the groin and forcing him over onto his stomach when he went slack with pain, pressing the agonizer against Spock’s side where his heart was. Jim wasn’t going to use it, not unless—

_ Snap! _

And then the agonizer was being ripped out of Jim’s hand with the force of a tidal wave, and he was being grabbed around his middle and slammed onto his back against the bed. Jim struggled and tried to twist out of Spock’s grasp, but_damn_him, Vulcans were too fucking strong. Spock must've broken the handcuffs, and now his weight on top of Jim was immovable, hard muscle wherever one of Jim’s blows connect, and quickly, too quickly, Jim’s struggles weakened as he realized it was useless.

Tightening his jaw, Jim clenched his eyes shut and waited for his legs to be forced apart, for the deep burn of penetration and the painful humiliation that always came with sex.

Instead, there was a gentle touch against the side of his face, and Jim’s eyes flew open, terrified because this was_worse_. Worse because if Spock fucked him, Jim would probably let him live. Painful though it'd always been with Pike, Jim had enjoyed parts of it—humiliated as he had felt for doing so—and maybe, maybe it would be better with Spock, who might be more gentle.

But Jim knew what it meant for a Vulcan to touch his face and Spock was_not_allowed to fuck Jim’s mind. 

Jim snapped at the hand, teeth grazing it before it quickly jerked away and Spock pressed his forearm against Jim’s collarbones and the base of his throat, holding him down.

Snarling, and still struggling futilely, Jim was shocked to felt the warm press of Spock’s lips against his—but not so shocked that he didn’t bite down hard, using Spock’s sound of pain as a chance to get a hand free, yank Spock’s head back by the hair, kick viciously and attempt to get on top.

He managed to get Spock off him at least—onto his side, and Jim shoved his shoulder, gritting his teeth and trying to force Spock’s head down against the mattress. 

Their wrestling was again short and brutal, and Jim ended up on his back again, wrists held firmly to the bed on either side of his head. Breathing harshly, Jim shuddered violently as he felt something touch the side of his face again,_no no no, please not that please—_

But there was no invasion. 

It was just the side of Spock’s face pressing softly against his. 

Confused, Jim felt Spock’s cheek rub against his, the motions pressing, almost desperate. And breathy noises—almost like the tender, snuffling kind the horses on his neighbors’ farm used to make, when Jim pet them, long, long ago—issued from Spock’s mouth and Jim was brought up short, realizing all at once he didn’t know how to fight this kind of touch.

And he didn’t know how to resist when Spock lifted one of Jim’s hands to his own face, slowly_nuzzling_his cheek against the back.

Eyes going dark and hazy, Spock met Jim’s gaze as he brought the hand to his mouth, kissing it, mouth a soft press against Jim’s knuckles and he felt a strange heat burn through him.

Slack bodied, half of Jim wanted to ask what was going on,_what are you doing, why don’t you just get it over with already_, but these questions were quickly sliding into the unfamiliar heat and then nothing, smoldering away in a pleasure that he was shocked to felt pooling in his stomach as Spock pressed his lips against Jim’s hand again.

Contradictory impulses roared through him with this realization and Jim got his other hand free, jerking the one Spock was kissing away and gripping Spock by the ear, so he had control of Spock's head—control which he used to pull Spock’s face to his own, kissing him roughly, lips and teeth not exactly sure of what they were doing, fumbling and harsh as he tried to get_more_. More of that heat; more of Spock, who groaned, yielding to Jim while at the same time grasping Jim's biceps and pressing his tongue against Jim’s lips.

Confused, wary, and eager, Jim was startled into opening his mouth, letting Spock in, felt so_good,_Spock’s hands coming up to stroke through his hair—which meant Jim had to let go of Spock's ear to wrestle his hands away, striving to maintain control of what was happening.

Their kiss went back and forth between gentle and brutal, shoving becoming hesitant touches and then shoving again, muscles taught as they grappled, jostling each other to get closer, caressing and then domineering—Jim pushing forward and holding Spock at bay at the same time, inexperience and desire for more mixing with his desire to punish Spock for this_assailment_. 

A stifled moan escaped Jim’s mouth as he felt Spock push against his stomach, hard and aroused, and Jim remembered that they were both still naked just as he realized that he was hard too. 

Arching his hips, he pressed himself against Spock’s thigh—which had stopped trapping Jim some time ago—and now Spock slid it between Jim's thighs, doing what Jim _wanted_, as Spock kept kissing him and_fuck_.

Jim’s hands came around Spock’s back, fingernails digging in as they pushed against each other, mouths and bodies—motions so fumbling and poorly coordinated that it occured to Jim to wonder if Spock had ever done this before. Jim definitely hadn’t done whatever_this_was.

But the question disappeared in the don’t-stop painful pleasure of their small, uncoordinated movements and then there was the feeling of Spock’s hand against the muscles of his stomach, sliding up—_wrong direction_—and rubbing his chest, warm and_fuck_—_!_

Jerking in surprise, Jim cried out as Spock’s fingers brushed over his nipple.

Surprise colored Spock’s face as their long kiss broke, and Jim, who was used to watching for the look in his enemies eyes before they struck, saw intention form in Spock’s expression in the moment before the Vulcan lowered his head and licked Jim's nipple, teeth grazing it and Jim gasped in pleasure-pain. The mix of the two made the muscles in his abdomen scream, tightening, hurting so much more than anything Pike had done to him. 

Grabbing onto Spock’s shoulders to steady himself, Jim was surprised by an impulse to run his hand down Spock’s back, which was beautiful and broad bent to its owner’s task as Spock focused on him, dark head moving as he licked and kissed Jim; the feel of his mouth on Jim’s skin_too much_, he_couldn’t_stand it.

_ Won’t stand it_, Jim decided, staring at the ceiling of his cabin, breaking his mind away from the pleasure. 

Jerking Spock’s head violently up by the hair, Jim dug his elbow into Spock’s shoulder and got him onto his back again. They needed to get on with it.

Spock’s head hit the pillow and his eyes were startled, hazy and dilated and Jim wanted to make him hurt as much as he made Jim hurt, with all this wasteful tenderness. 

So Jim was not gentle when he pushed in, and there was a brief moment of sick enjoyment at the unguarded shock of pain in Spock’s widening eyes, the mournful whimper he made, like he’d been stabbed,_there that’ll teach you, that’s what love is like you idiot_—but it was enjoyment that instantly shriveled when Spock’s eyes closed in resignation, his hands coming up to Jim’s shoulders, stroking down Jim’s sides like he was a wild animal that Spock was trying to calm—to love—and Jim felt so ashamed and so so sorry. 

He’d never been the one to do this, always had it done to him—you were_raped_Jim—and fuck if it didn’t hurt like_fuck_to see his own pain on Spock’s face.

“I—” he started, not sure what he was trying to say. “I didn’t—”

Spock blinking up at him. Then he raised a finger to Jim’s lips, shushing him, like _Jim_ was the one being hurt, even though Jim saw that Spock’s beautiful eyes were wet, and he felt even more ashamed and he couldn’t look, closed his eyes to the sight, even as the touch of Spock’s fingers to his mouth became a caress.

Slowly, Spock took Jim in his arms and pressed his back into the mattress. And Jim went without protest, unresisting as Spock straddled him, leaned down and kissed him again, very very softly as they adjusted to this new position.

And a few moments later, Spock sat up, hands sliding up Jim’s chest as he began moving—slowly at first—and Jim wasn’t sure who was in charge anymore, who was fucking who, as he felt the shock of this pleasure going through him, head tipping backwards and neck arching as he tried to hold in all the noises he wanted to make. His hands found Spock’s waist, but he could do nothing more than hold on as Spock kept moving his hips with gentle purpose, and Jim didn’t know what this was—it wasn’t fucking, even though that’s what it_was_, because it wasn’t that at all—and he was so lost to the feeling that he half gave up trying to stop the gasps and moans his body wanted him to make, his breaths coming in high sounds, shattered by this_tenderness._

Seconds, or minutes or eons later, Jim was still lost, but he felt Spock’s thighs start to tremble with exertion, so he somehow mustered the strength to pull himself up, keeping them connected as he maneuvered Spock, who was sweating and slick, down onto the bed, lifting Spock’s tired legs onto his shoulders where they crossed, sliding against each other behind Jim’s head.

Jim rocked forward again, sliding in and out, and it was Spock’s turn to tilt his head backwards, hair fanning out on the pillow, eyes closing, this time not with pain but with obvious pleasure.

For some reason Jim didn’t like this. Spock was_always_looking at him and he didn’t want him to look away now. He didn’t know how to say this, so he stilled, reaching out a tentative hand to Spock’s forehead, gently brushing his sweat soaked bangs away from his eyes, letting his hand linger on the side of Spock’s face.

Spock leaned into the caress, and when he opened his eyes a moment later, they were so full of trust that it_hurt_,_God, oh God._

Hurt so bad that, Jim felt himself shudder all over, a deep sob-like something wracking his chest, sound broken and sad when it came out of his mouth, he couldn’t look, head flopping forward onto Spock’s shoulder to hide, so goddamn embarrassing, he hadn’t cried during sex since the first time, when he was a kid and—

A hand gripped his lower back, urging him forward, and another found the back of his neck, massaging and pulling him into a series of brief, aching kisses. Kisses full of mournful, scared noises that Jim thought he was the one making. He was so sorry for hurting Spock and for throwing chess boards at him and for putting the only person who’d ever loved him like this in the agony booth for two hours last week that he felt the words rise unbidden to his lips, so sorry.

“I love you,” he gasped, which was not at all what he'd been intending to say, but was very, terrifyingly true, he realized. 

Hands tightened in his hair and the sound Spock made was one Jim had never heard from anyone before, somewhere in between a moan and a sigh and he was kissing Jim again, urging him to move faster and a babble of Vulcan words were gasped into Jim’s neck, most of which he didn't recognize—but_t’hy’la_was among them and Jim began to move his hips again, pressing their foreheads together. 

He kept rocking forward, and soon Spock was gasping, mouth opening and closing in surprise, grip on Jim’s back becoming painful—before he went fully limp in Jim’s arms. 

Jim leaned down and kissed him again, messy and uncoordinated, so focused on Spock that he was surprised as the suffocating tidal waves retreated and a riptide yanked through his body, vision whitening— 

Dazed, fallen to the side onto the bed, Jim felt Spock cling to him, whispering Vulcan words that Jim could tell meant ‘_I love you, I love you, I love you,’_ and Jim wanted to ask_‘how can you? how can you? how can you?’ _

After a few moments—or hours—lying like this, wrapped tightly together, Spock brought his hand tentatively to the side of Jim’s face. It was a question, and Jim wanted to cry with shame.

“How can you still want that?” he got out,_after what I just did, after what I keep doing to you_. Jim knew a Vulcan bond was forever. "I can't even promise I won't do this to you again."_I'll forget, when I have to go outside again, everything will twist itself and I'll forget this truth for the lie._

“You are my_t’hy’la_," Spock said, as though this are explanation enough.

“So it’s just a Vulcan mind thing? You don’t get a choice?”_Some luck_.

Spock’s eyebrows pulled into a frown. “No Jim._T’hy’la_does not mean that I love you without choice. It means—” Spock looked like he was struggling for words, “—that I will_always_choose you. No matter what you do.”

“Oh,” Jim said. He sort of got what that meant, to his surprise. He always chose Spock. Even when the old, bad parts of him didn’t want to. Just like now.

“O—Okay then. But—it’s not—it’s not good, just so you know. The things I’ve done and thought—”_don’t bear thinking about_, Jim knew, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t want you to see that. I still don’t understand how you can_want_to.”

And Spock, who was always more eloquent with his actions than his words, didn’t say anything. Just looked at Jim, and lifted his hand to the side of Jim’s face and Jim closed his eyes, ready.

But the meld didn't come. It was just Spock, tucking a piece of Jim’s hair behind his ear, sweaty and damp, a mirror of Jim’s own, earlier touch and for a moment it was easy to pretend that the outside world didn't exist or that it was a better, kinder place than it was. That he and Spock could stay safe together forever in this room and that who they were outside it wouldn’t be waiting for them tomorrow.

Jim opened his eyes, finding Spock’s and he gave a small nod.

“My mind to your mind,” Spock said, positioning his hand on the side of Jim’s face, cool fingers and_oh, oh, oh—_

_ My thoughts to your thoughts _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Complicated/dubious consent (the interaction as a whole is consensual, but there are moments that are definitely dubious consent and presented as such), referenced past sexual abuse of a minor (not discussed explicitly), offensive slur/language regarding sexworkers, implied sexism, internalized homophobia, stigma towards bottoming.
> 
> when i was writing this, i was like, 'u know what this smut needs? a biblical quote at the beginning.' 
> 
> I'm on tumblr [@wingittofreedom](https://wingittofreedom.tumblr.com). If you'd like to help others find this story, you can reblog [this post](https://wingittofreedom.tumblr.com/post/187202523034/two-very-different-men)!
> 
> ANNOUNCEMENT (2020, Jan 2): I'm planning to continue this story (1 or 2 more chapters). So if you'd like to read more, subscribe or bookmark for an update :)


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